Birthdays
by shadow-lupine
Summary: Sherlock does not normally celebrate his birthday, but sometimes these things happen. JohnxSherlock


It was a well known fact that Sherlock Holmes did not celebrate his own birthday. In fact, Doctor John Watson doubted that the man even knew when his birthday was. "Irrelevant!" The consulting detective had proclaimed. "There is no need to celebrate 365 days of breathing and other boring stuff. It's all congratulations and what do I get. People get pissed and use it as an excuse. It's detestable really".

And John had left it at that.

However, on the seventh of July 221B Baker St had an unusual guest. A bottle of milk was sitting quite innocently in the fridge. The Doctor was astonished - He hadn't brought the milk himself and his flatmate would buy milk about as often as he would let Lestrade have the last word. He reached into the cool interior of the fridge, glad that the severed head had finally been disposed of, and gingerly took out the plastic carton. It didn't explode, that was good, nor did it smell sour or poisoned when he opened it. Taking a risk, he made a cup of coffee - he didn't foam at the mouth or have a seizure.

How very odd.

Suddenly, his phone beeped. Watson looked at it in surprise.

"Happy Birthday - SH"

It was weird, Watson reflected, but the small gesture from his new flatmate was one of the best presents he had received yet.

The second birthday present that Watson received from his flatmate was equally unexpected. It was just after a particularly punishing case where he had very narrowly avoided being shot. Again. The look Sherlock had given the doctor when it was certain that John was going to be all right was present enough for the man but nevertheless, when he came down to breakfast there was a bullet proof vest sitting innocently on the table. The Doctor picked it up and had to admire the garment, it was much lighter and flexible than the vests he had worn in Army training, it would go virtually unnoticed under a loose coat and some darkness. Watson jumped as his dark haired companion entered the room. Rather than complaining about the lack of murders, or running off to solve them, the detective stalked over to where Watson was standing. Their eyes met and something changed in Sherlock's facial expression. Before Watson could even begin to comprehend it, the strangest thing happened - Sherlock hugged him.

It was a brief hug, but John still felt his breath catch. Sherlock smelt like musk and spice mixed up with something exotic and completely Sherlock. The detective's chin rested on the wool of John's jumper for a second before he was released. The Doctor watched, gobsmacked and flushed as the Detective gave him a curt nod and left the room.

Birthdays just kept getting better and better.

It was the sixth of January and, after an embarrassing conversation with Mycroft, John knew that Sherlock's birthday was tomorrow. Braving the snow, John headed to the mall. It was perhaps a tad more packed that usual, but he was determined. The present had to be the best gift he had ever given, even though the Detective was adamant about how he despised his birthday. He strolled through the mall, glancing over the flashing lights and garishly clad manikins. The air smelt of perfume and grease from the food court. The doctor found it almost unbearably loud and empathised with how his flatmate avoided places like this at all costs. He checked a book store. Nothing. He checked the generic department stores. Nothing. Eventually he seemed to have checked every store in the mall without finding anything. Annoyed and dejected, Watson vowed to check one last store before braving the snow again.

It was a small store with no outstanding features. It sold a small variety of shawls, pins, hats and scarves.

And there it was.

Sitting on a shelf was the perfect present. Long, soft and with an almost imperceivable red tinge along the edges, the midnight black scarf just screamed Sherlock. John imagined it wrapped around the creamy long neck of his flatmate, the soft material sitting against the soft skin. He imagined unwrapping the scarf too, taking it off and... John coughed and went over to pay for the gift.

He arrived home around eleven, thanks to a particularly nasty traffic accident. Being a doctor he felt compelled to help out to the best of his abilities, administering what aid he could until the ambulance arrived. Opening up the front door, the Doctor was surprised to see the Detective sitting stiffly in a chair. He noticed his arrival immediately, but instead of a warm hello, he got a curt statement as his flatmate stalked out into the kitchen.

"You're back."

"Yes, I am" Watson was confused, why was he so distant?

"Did you get milk?"

"No, sorry, I didn't realise we needed some"

"I told you three hours ago to go and get some."

Watson sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. So it was like this then. "Sherlock, I wasn't here three hours ago. I was out."

"Were you? I hadn't noticed you had left."

The detective's back was to the Doctor, gazing up into the empty cupboards. _Hang on, thought John, Sherlock doesn't eat from the cupboards._

"Sherlock?" John was naturally nervous about asking such a question, "Are you... Okay?"

"I am perfectly well John."

"Are... you sure?" Tentatively he placed a hand on his shoulder. The Detective abruptly turned around and stared at him. His lips were pinched and he almost seemed to be struggling to hold his aloof exterior.

"Yes John. I told you I am well. I just don't care for your time keeping skills. It is really beneath a doctor to show up far later than expected. Judging by the amount of luggage and the sum of money in your cash account, I expected you back precisely one hour and thirty minutes ago. I guess I didn't realise how exciting your expedition was going to be. You couldn't be at Mary's after the falling out you two had, so I guess it would be expected that you would've found some other form of... _entertainment_."

"The reason I was late was because of traffic, thank you very much. I was the only one with medical training on site and was obligated to stay with the injured until the ambulance arrived. Don't you think that I would rather be curled up in here with you rather than on some cold street tending to broken bones and concussions? And although it is none of your information, I wasn't shacking up or anything like that, I was shopping to buy you a birthday present. After the nice ones you had given me, the least I could do was to return the favour." He threw the package on the table. "Here, happy birthday" and stormed out.

John knew he was childish for blowing up like that, Sherlock would've called it impulsive. But he was tired, and extraordinarily nervous about how he would've taken the gift. He sat down on his bed and considered what to do now. Sleep, it seemed was the most profitable course of action. He knew all the symptoms of being over tired and was showing all of them. He was about to lift his body off the nice, springy bed to get changed when the door opened and Holmes walked in.

The first thing that the Doctor noticed was the new scarf around the pale neck. It swept around his throat and majestically swooped over his collar bone. John Watson forgot why he has angry at the detective, forgot about going to sleep. His flatmate looked so ethereal, so gorgeous, he forgot to breathe.

'John?" the Detective asked quietly, snapping the subject out of his thoughts.

"Yeah?"

"I just wanted to thank you for the scarf."

John gave half a smile

"Don't worry about it, you've given me gifts before. Besides, it looks good on you." Just how good the Detective looked must've shown on his face because John could've sworn he saw the Detective blush.

"Well, yeah... um, thanks." he even seemed a bit ruffled, which John found more than a bit endearing. He stood up.

"Come here, you're got the fringe twisted"

Miraculously, the Detective complied, stepping forward and bending down slightly, even though, in truth, there was nothing wrong with the edge of the scarf. John carefully unwound the garment, marvelling once again at the smell of Sherlock, as well as the soft feel of cloth and skin. It was as good as he imagined it would be. When the scarf was completely unwound he arranged it again, trying not to let his responding body become too obvious. It was a shame to rewind it again, as rewinding it would signal the end of the contact, but still he did it, forcing his shaking hands to do it correctly, making sure that the fringe was sitting properly. When he was done, he made to step back again, to exit the personal space of his flatmate, but before he did strong hands grasped him and the Doctor found himself face to face and lip to lip with his flatmate.

They were kissing. Tongues soon followed lips and John found himself in heaven. How long had he wanted this? Sherlock's strong hands were ghosting around the edges of his shirt, like impatient dogs wanting to be let in. He pulled it off and bit back a gasp when they immediately started mapping the new territory. Sherlock's shirt soon followed suit but John knocked the pale hands away when they tried to remove the scarf, preferring to to it himself. Their torso's pressed together and they collapsed on John's bed, still kissing and panting. The hands were still exploring, reaching lower territory. John gasped when he felt them on the front of his trousers and was quick to respond in kind. He was instantly rewarded with the most amazing moan being issued from his flatmate, who quickly rolled on top of him started lapping at his neck and chest. Thrashing under the attention of the hot mouth, John couldn't do much but moan Sherlock's name and move his hands, not that Sherlock seemed to mind. The man could keep a cool head in any situation and was quite happy to take charge, taking the plunge and removing all of their clothing. At the first touch of their erections, John was at the edge. His body, so tired from the long day quickly gave into release and Sherlock soon followed. They lay there for a long time, catching their breath and kissing softly. Even though they were spent, they couldn't seem to keep their hands off each other. John turned to his flatmate as the clock struck midnight.

"Happy Birthday Sherlock".


End file.
